Focus

It is indiscriminate.  It will sneak up slowly, like a predator stalking its prey.  It studies weaknesses so it can strike when and where it hurts most.  It is paralyzing fear coupled with complete hopelessness and the worst internal aching imaginable.  You wish you could turn off your mind, so you could have a moment to reset, one shred of normalcy, a second of respite from the fucking torment you put yourself through every day.  Overthinking is an everyday thing; anxiety has its hands around your neck and tightens its grip at will, completely disabling your ability to breath.  The air catches in your throat when you try to inhale to normalize your breathing, and it ends up becoming a quivering whimper.  You literally choke because of the chest tightness. You constantly feel like you are going to die.

You’re not good enough.  Your life is a fucking joke.  You have no respect for yourself because you think you’re leagues behind everyone else.  What do others have that you so covet?  Since you don’t see their everyday struggles, you assume they’ve got their lives together, and you wish to hell that you had that same “normal” aura about you.

Forget hobbies, spending time with friends or family, cleaning your house, or even simply keeping up with your personal care.  All your energy is devoted to reminding yourself that you are nothing but garbage.  You go to bed exhausted and wake up exhausted.  For a moment, that time between waking up and regaining total consciousness, you are free. Your mind has not yet begun racing with the non-truths that fill your head.  You know these things are not true but damn if you don’t believe them anyways.  The simplest thing can set you off; you could have been doing well in suppressing the self-loathing thoughts, but it takes just one snag to completely unravel the entire sweater and all the terrible thoughts that you have been overpowering are now running amok.  It feels like The Simpsons episode where Mr. Burns goes for a checkup and the doctor tells him that a myriad of diseases are basically stuck in the doorway to his body, and the slightest breeze could kill him, though this is markedly less humorous.

There are unspeakable evils that swirl around my head regularly and I fight like hell to keep them in check.  Some days I lose that battle and it feels like a piece of my heart dies.  I can’t stop it. No amount of reassurance from someone will ever rid me of these feelings.  It is very appropriate that Asleep in the Deep by Mastodon started playing as I type this paragraph, because a line in the song goes:

The demons, they all went away

Be careful they're only asleep for a while

Pretending there's nothing to say

This is what is feels like to live with mental illness.  This is what it feels like to worry constantly, about things that have happened, that will happen, and that will never happen.  There are scenarios that play out in my mind without ceasing.  I imagine things that will never happen but believe they’re real or could happen.  I don’t know the last time I was without anxiety, where I didn’t struggle with self-hatred, or where I was truly happy. The demons only sleep.

I have generalized anxiety.  I have depression.  I have PTSD.  I have an eating disorder. I have days where I want to kill myself.  My brain is constantly fighting my body.  I am not alone in this fight, but I feel like I am.  I have never been without love but for most of my life, I have never loved myself.  I know that I am cared for, but some days I don’t care if I’m alive to see another day.  If you’ve never struggled with these issues, it can be difficult to wrap your mind around them and be supportive in a way that doesn’t come across as completely unhelpful.  I cannot take another person telling me, “It’ll be okay! Just think positive and good things will happen!”  Bullshit platitudes are not a suitable treatment for mental illnesses, even if they’re said with the best intentions.

The deaths of Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain are unfortunate reminders that suicide sometimes feels like the only alternative.  While I am fully aware that it is not a suitable way to deal with the pitfalls of life, it feels like it might be the right way to go when you’re backed into a corner in your mind.  Talking to someone can help, but it’s difficult to find someone to talk to that will understand what you’re going through.

I know that people love me, but try as one might, nobody can make me love myself.  That is where the issue lies and until I can find a way to fix that, I will continue to silently struggle with a smile on my face because that’s how I do things.  It’s gotten me through almost 32 years of life so far, but I know that I need help.  Thankfully I have a support system who has yet to give up on me, and I finally realize that my mental health is more important than school, any job, hobbies, or anyone that isn’t Kerri.  I must learn to put myself first because nobody else will. Becoming well is going to be a struggle but I need to put in the effort because I owe it to myself and everyone that cares about me.

It’s going to be difficult, but I’ll live.

It's just me and my Cannondale.

“Get out of the street!”

That sentence was one of the first things I heard this morning as I biked in to work.  I was on Broadway, a busy four-lane road that spits you out near downtown Cleveland.  A woman was standing at a bus stop near an intersection and took it upon herself to offer me a bit of advice.  I ignored her, though it took every ounce of willpower to not turn around and harsh her gig with some cold hard facts.  Since I’ll probably never see her again, I’m going to lay down some law for you guys because ignorance, while sometimes blissful, is infuriating to those that take the time to educate themselves and abide by the laws of man (and who exercise common sense).

“Cyclist act like they’re above the law.” So do some motorists. What’s your point? You’re going to have bad apples no matter the mode of transportation.  Some people fail to use their turn signals, run red lights, text while driving, refrain from using seatbelts, operate vehicles under the influence, and the list continues.  Some cyclists disregard traffic signals, cut people off, and don’t use hand signals among other things.  Nobody is above the law but some people think they can get away with stuff.  Not all cyclists act like that so don’t lump me into that category.

“You people bug the hell out of me when you’re riding on the road!”  A coworker said that to me awhile ago.  Let me tell you something; riding a bike to work is no different than driving a car to work in the sense that you’re operating a piece of equipment to get you from point A to point B as safely and efficiently as possible.  Biking has added benefits in that you get exercise, save money on gas and parking, and leave less of a carbon footprint.  Yes, you must exercise more caution while riding a bike simply because it’s you and your bike against a few tons of steel, but my point is that we’re allowed on the road just the same as you are.  Don’t believe me? Check it: http://codes.ohio.gov/orc/4511.55v1  Lemme break it down for you in layman’s terms:

4511.55(A) states bike riders should ride to the right as practicable (aka possible, feasible, realistic, other synonyms) and obey the same rules that cars do.

4511.55(B) states side-by-side riding is fine but no more than two people in a single lane, unless it’s a designated bike lane/path.

4511.55(C) is probably one of the most important in terms of bicycle safety.  This part states that a person on a bike is NOT REQUIRED to ride at the edge of the roadway.  Bear in mind section (A) where it says that bikers SHALL (meaning ‘will’ in the future tense) ride as near to the right side of the roadway as possible WHILE obeying all traffic rules.  Simply put, I’m going to ride my bike as close to the side of the road as I can until something obstructs my pathway.  If there’s an obstruction, I’ll do what I need to do in order to avoid it, much like anyone would when swerving to miss a pothole or something.  Don’t like it? Take it up with our representatives and lawmakers.

4511.55(D) goes over what happens when this section (meaning 4511.55 in its entirety) is violated and how a person would be punished. 

“You can’t ride on this street because it’s too busy” or “You can’t ride on the sidewalk because of pedestrians.”   Where in the hell do you propose I ride then?  Again, in case you missed it. Check it:http://codes.ohio.gov/orc/4511.55v1  One little addendum: local ordinances.  While I haven’t had a chance to check all the ordinances in my area, I have checked the two main municipalities that I travel through, being the city of Cleveland (where I work) and village of Newburgh Heights (where I reside).  With regard to both municipalities, as far as I can tell from my research, neither one has a specific rule about NOT riding on the sidewalk.  That being said, I follow this: http://codes.ohio.gov/orc/4511.711v1 which states that bicycles are allowed on sidewalks unless otherwise directed by a municipality’s local rule. That being said, guess what? I’m allowed to ride on the street OR sidewalk (while exercising caution and obeying all state and local laws of course, and being mindful of pedestrians and cars) so take your quips and shove them.

Keep in mind that most cyclists are very aware of their surroundings and are just trying to get to their destination by their preferred mode of transportation.  I’m one of those cyclists.  I take my safety very seriously and am cautious, courteous, and vigilant.  I don’t quite make enough money to miss work due to being run over by a dump truck full of medical debt so I wear a helmet, obey the laws, and stay aware of my surroundings.  Does that mean I haven’t had some close calls by no fault of my own?  Ha!  Not quite.  Will that deter me from continuing to ride?  Absolutely not. 

Like anything else in life, educate yourselves.  Take the time to learn about things that may be unfamiliar to you.  When everyone is informed, we make better choices and are safer.  If you choose to be an ignorant moron like the bus stop woman, don’t be surprised when I call you out on your shit.  If I ever see her again, I’ve got my printed Ohio Revised Code sections highlighted and in my bike bag, ready to be articulated at a moment’s notice.  You gon’ learn today, son.

You're a disorder.

Giving up before I even begin.

Saying to myself, “Nobody is going to care about this. Everyone has their own problems. You’re being selfish and burdensome.

Frustration to the point of physically hurting myself.

Convincing myself that my problems aren’t problems; that the story I’ve contrived lacks merit despite it being a hurdle I cannot overcome alone.

Sitting for hours, expressionless and despondent, for no reason.

Being a prisoner in my own mind, unable to clearly or concisely express my thoughts to anyone, or even myself.

Welcome to my life.



I went to a psychologist, actually two psychologists, three years ago. I was tired of feeling worthless. I wanted to figure out why I felt like, no matter what anyone said to me, I didn’t matter. After several appointments with the first psychologist, it became glaringly apparent that she, despite her best efforts, wasn’t going to be any help to me because she wanted to focus on my relationship, or lack thereof, with my father. Her assessment wasn’t incorrect, though I felt it was too much focus on the past and not enough focus on the present. What is it about me now that I can’t stand? What is it about my present self that makes me miserable? I wasn’t looking for an easy answer because I knew that whatever was going on in my head wasn’t going to be identified, bandaged, and healed overnight.

I decided to go to the psychologist at Tri-C as I was a student there at the time. I was nervous about meeting the doctor but when am I not nervous?

As I type this blog, my foot is tapping. I’ve picked up this mannerism in recent years due to my constant fear of…whatever the hell it is I’m afraid of: failure, family members dying, money, if my cat fell out the window, if the wheels of my car will fall off on the drive home, if my significant other is content with our relationship and remaining faithful, if I’ll have another kidney stone at some point in my life, if I’ll fall and chip a tooth while climbing the stairs in my entryway when I get home tonight, if I’ll ever find a career that fits me…you get the idea.

As soon as the doctor invited me into her office, I felt a rush of relief. I was finally going to talk to someone and hopefully figure out what the hell is wrong with me. If nothing else, perhaps she’ll point me in the right direction so I can find my way out of this fog. When she asked me what brought me into her office, I started to cry. I had planned for this but I still wasn’t ready for it. In recent years, I cry more freely than I ever have, as evidenced by my many “OMG THE FLUFFY KITTEN LOOKED AT ME!” *SOBS* type Facebook posts. I explained to her that I never felt right, that there is always some feeling of inadequacy looming overhead. I have semi-frequent panic attacks. I don’t find joy in the things that I did previously. I break into stress-induced hives. I’m always tired, despite changes in diet or exercise habits. I’m overly emotional and usually at the wrong time. I’m constantly riddled with self-doubt. I spend hours agonizing over decisions I’ve made in the past or have to make in the future, no matter how big or small the decision is. She asked numerous questions and listened intently as I described myself and what I’m struggling with, and her evaluation was this: I have an anxiety disorder. Anyone with a machine capable of going to WebMD can pretty well figure out that an anxiety disorder was exactly the condition with which I’m dealing.

A “condition.” I just made it sound like I’m an 87 year-old person with osteoporosis and a gimp knee.

This disorder has robbed me of countless hours of life. It has affected me in ways I never imaged possible. I’ve thought things that nobody should ever think.

I’ve had days where I simply wanted to die.

Panic.
Inability to sit still.

Tension.
Palpitations.
Problems sleeping.

Tunnel vision.

My mind is playing a constant game of “what if?” I start to think of things, scenarios that are completely made up, things that could happen but probably never will, and I feel it happening. It starts as a warm sensation in my core. My heart starts beating faster. My hands become shaky. My sense of hearing diminishes. I lose peripheral vision; everything except what’s exactly in front of me is lost in a sea of black. My body is hot. Tears start freely flowing from my eyes. My brain wants to shut off but I know that the only way to stop this from becoming a full blown panic attack is to talk to myself. I have to pull myself out of this before it gets to the point where I lose an hour because I’ve blacked out. My go-to method is breathing. If I can calm myself down enough with deep breaths and repeating something like, “everything is cool” or even something completely random like “bees have wings”, I can typically talk my way out of a full-blown panic attack. Repetition helps. However, immediately following even the slightest attack, I’m physically and mentally exhausted and all I want to do is sleep.

Sleep. This has become a favorite coping mechanism in recent years. Stressed? Take a nap. Bogged down with things to do? Sleep instead. Feeling worthless and incapable of succeeding in life? Bed time. The times that I am in a stress-induced sleep, I never wake up well-rested. If anything, I’m typically more tired and more pressed for time because I’ve slept through my self-imposed deadline.

I always thought that mental illnesses like anxiety or depression were made-up things that people used as a cop out. You’re anxious? Yeah, well so am I but you don’t see me taking medication for it. Having dealt with anxiety for the past 10 years, I no longer see mental illnesses as made-up, pseudo-science, or a way of accommodating laziness. I bust my ass to provide for myself and Princess Meowmix; I’m not lazy. I’m smart, witty, compassionate, and capable. Regardless of my victories, I’m still defeated on many occasions. “I’m not smart enough to go back to school for that.” “Nobody thinks I’m funny.” “I don’t have what it takes to help others.” “I’m not good enough.” Those thoughts, among many other ridiculous thoughts, impose themselves upon me on a daily basis and to say that the struggle is real is an understatement. Some days it takes every ounce of mental strength to get out of bed. Some days I’m not successful in that venture so I lay in bed all day, feeling miserable that I couldn’t bring myself to be a functional member of society.

Today was one of those days, though I did manage to make it out of bed, thanks to Eloise. Had it not been for Fluffy Tail’s annoying “let’s see what happens when I scratch the bedside table until mom throws something at me” game, I probably would have called off work to lay in bed and hate myself. Anxiety is a bitch. What’s there to be anxious about? For me, the more appropriate question is what ISN’T there to be anxious about?

I'm writing this as a way to let others know what it’s like to live with anxiety. Please know that saying things like, “Just don’t worry about it!” do not help. If I was able to “just not worry” about things, I’d be fine but anxiety doesn’t afford you that luxury. You’re constantly thinking of the what ifs, everything that can catastrophically go wrong but probably won’t, or some variation of the two.

My brain is a mess; my thoughts are generally not succinct. I never know how to adequately express what I'm feeling or thinking. It's hard for me to talk about this with anyone because I don't know what to say. How do you explain that you know something is wrong but don't know exactly what's wrong?

I struggle. I fail a lot. My victories are sweet but sometimes few and far between. Sometimes I don’t feel worthy of those victories, so even in my successes I am defeated. I try to remember that my family loves me, that my cat doesn’t hate me, that the earthquake of the century isn’t going to happen while I drive over this bridge, and that I’m a human being that is allowed to be imperfect. I’m allowed to have faults, issues, and hard times. What I decide to do with those is up to me. Do I float, sink, or swim?

For now, just call me bob.